


The Clockwork Universe

by LaconicTerm



Series: The Grail [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A small gift., A small tour inside the Holmes' Manor, F/M, I LOVE THOSE BLOODY KNIGHTS., Major Character Undeath, Meena is my new favourite., Mollcroft, almost killed Mycroft and Molly., and another MOLLCROFT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaconicTerm/pseuds/LaconicTerm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another universe, that only a Mycroft Holmes could fit in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clockwork Universe

**Author's Note:**

> Still un-betad...

**"Tomorrow's the 20th** of October, what do you have for Jonathan?" Molly asked Meena as she doodled something of non-importance on the paper she's been bringing anywhere.

 

"Dunno still, you know, my Nathan is not that much of a picky guy... He's good with just a bottle of champagne after a movie night. We usually do that during anniversaries, so there might be no changes." The woman glanced over the lady as she tried to type some records for the Hospital.

 

"Not prepping for anything as a present?" She stopped creating circles and looked at her companion for a minute, waiting for a direct answer.

 

"That's of no essence Molls, as I've said if you're not listening, Jonathan's not a choosy one, a simple presence of mine— he's fine with that. You know, he considers me as the greatest gift he'd ever received, and..." Meena uttered impulsively and excitedly waved her hands against the air.

 

"You're lucky." Molly muttered, supplying Meena's last statement.

 

"I'm lucky, no way, why?"

 

"Do I need to admit it myself?" She asked Meena who was still looking at her quizzically. The woman's face made her sigh with dissatisfaction, _and so the woman indeed never had any idea_ , "Fine. Because of the fact that you've gotten yourself a practical, yet sweet partner who knows how to understand and to find the _importance_ of one." Her doodling with a pencil looked harshly doomed with each word she's uttering.

 

"Oh, Molly. Believe me, believe me sissy, Jonathan is not the sweetest man everyone could have ever met, he's actually one of the weirdest jokes the world has ever created. I mean, of course he's a man... But he's not of a romantic one, fails to respond to bugger stimuli, yet he loves me above all and I still love him even if he seemed to be dysfunctional, and what _lies in between_ _us_ is sweet." She responded with her softest voice, like a daydreamer who's waiting for a knight to swept her off and awake her from her reverie; however, her voice suddenly changed when she noticed the paper with grime doodles. "What is that _paper_ , Molly?"

 

"Oh! No, just a _simple list_ of things." Molly retorted as crumpled the paper and hid it inside her laboratory gown's lap pockets.

 

"O..kay? How 'bout you and that **James**?" Meena asked as she focused back on her keyboard.

 

"James? Multiple of bloody times Meena, it’s _not James_ , Mycroft, he is." Molly annoyingly said.

 

"Whoever is that James Bond guy. You, still together?"

 

"There's no point of denying that **fact**." Mycroft said, walking towards the medical practitioners who were having a causerie. "Good day Miss Meena Patterson." He slightly nodded his head at the woman who was beforehand focused on the light rays from the monitor, and is now gazing on his sumptuous coat and tie.

 

"Sorry? Oh, I'm sorry, Mister— Bond? Oh Mycroft... What? Bond? **Molly**?" She was out of her words, looking at Molly, asking for some spare helps.

 

"Holmes." Molly hushed at her

 Having grasped it, Meena said, "Oh yes, Mister Mycroft Holmes, I was..."

 

"Stupefied by my suit, as well as of my presence." He said looking over the pile of indexes above Meena's table. "I would suggest that if you wish to be able to finish that by the soonest possible time of your 15.2 second average word interval with 86.71 accuracy for 53 medical records, you must start now, and then be finished by 8." He coughed, looking at Molly, then back to Meena, "I'm afraid, that this good friend of yours _lowers_ the probability rate that you might be able to finish that on the given time, as well as _affecting_ your data status. Now, for the betterment and for everyone's sake, Doctor Hooper and I must depart now, if you'll excuse us." Molly was chuckling now, then Mycroft held her lumbar curve and ushered her far from the gaping woman.

 

"Meena, you have consumed the 10 seconds by just drooling and gaping." Molly shouted as the woman flashed her eyes with her head looking over the different directions, to check if someone had seen her small act.

 

**∞**

 

 **"Today's the 20th** , _their_ 6th." Molly looked at him, placing her smaller hand above his settled right leg, and informed Mycroft as he was focusing his thoughts at the _dimming_ bright rays from the white light as they were seated at the back of his carbon-colored Rolls Royce.

 

"I'm sorry?" He looked at the woman with his blank business-like expression, as he crumpled his forehead with discomfort, unable to grasp her suppeditated words, his hands _clutching_ the wooden carved handle of his brolly. _Mycroft does that whenever he felt so awkward and unease._

 

"Meena and Jonathan's sixth year anniversary." His whole focus now with her, awaiting for a good response however answered by _his coldness_.

 

"None of **_my_** business." He turned his head back to the window, his clutch now easing.

 

Molly bit her lower lip ferociously, almost lacerating it by her canine. She then took her left hand far from the man, folding it in a fist on her lap. "Yes, it's none of _your_ business."

 

Indeed, it is none of his business, logically and rationally speaking. What matters the most is the country, _his_ nation, England. He's willing to sacrifice every piece of him for **_her_** sake. How she wished that the sake he has been treasuring with great importance was **_her_** own sake. Yet she knows that he was the most _emotionally_ cruel man she had ever known. Deprivation.

 

Perhaps, _she's_ right, Meena is just so lucky with Jonathan, well aside from the fact that _he_ is from a family of a righteous standing, having a stable job from their family company and a well-defined facial features which seemed to be **_enough_**. Also, _he_ may be of an obtuse mental capacity unlike Mycroft who stood out with his acute perceptions, but _he_ loves _her_ above anything else, _more than_ **life** , _more than_ the **world** , _more than_ **reality** — because it was Meena who _he_ sees as _his **reality**_ , _his **world** ,_ _his **life**_ , _his **meaning** , _and _his **end**_ — and that is love, the highest form of liking. And how about them? Her and Mycroft's should be called and considered _the same_ , shouldn't they?

 

Of course! **He** is a man, a man who sees **you** as a _bare_ being, just and simply existing under the family of Hominids, same ability of Lucy's, for the sake of distraction, and could be dismissed at any time he wants; and **she** , unimportant one, who _never_ mattered, a goldfish. They are a simple ecosystem, interaction between a human and a fish— a mere relationship, but the word _with_ _affection_ made her living in a doubtful world.

 

 **He loves her?** That thought made her _shiver_.

 

"Miss Hooper, you're shivering. Do you want me to _adjust_ the temperature?" The chauffeur asked, looking intently at her through the mirror. Charles, oh poor Charles, _professionally_ stuck with an emotionless man...but it was her who is the **most** pathetic and pitiful woman, _emotionally_ attached with an emotionless bastard. **Really** , **When will you give up?**

 

She tried to utter a word, but no to afford, until Mycroft _answered for her_ , "No Charles, _keep_ it there. It's _not that_ cold."

 

Charles looked at her with sympathies, and nodded with the man, leaving the adjustment buttons hanging by itself.

 

**Not that cold.**

 

**∞**

 

 **The sound of** a clearing throat opened her black vision from a nap where she had her head previously resting against the window, now against the leathery covering of the car's seat.

 

"Molly, we're here, now if you please. I _do not_ wish to carry you upstairs." Mycroft said as he stood composed against the opened door.

 

" ** _Oh sorry_**." Molly brought her weight up from the seat and gathered all her belongings from his car. "Good bye, and have a good day." **_Far from me_**. She said as she left the man sitting inside his own car.

 

**No good byes from him.**

 

 _No worries, you have said it for him_.

 

**No one's turning back.**

 

_He dismissed **you** with his pride thickly covering his face, dismiss him with **your love** woven with silk yet deeply used and ruptured._

 

She never looked back, her hands full of papers of different writings from _the past,_ of both different events and elements, not of guilt and wrong doings. **_Perhaps, it's time to move on_**. She took her silver keys from the bag, had her five minutes to _find_ it lying underneath the other files and personal series of belongings she's been keeping _far_ from anyone else's eyes. Looking through it's small stick-like figures, the papers **lost** _their_ balance, falling down from her right arm. Her inner walls collapsed, sending different waves and heights of tides covering her eyes, _her views_. She gathered her things as fast as she could, twisted the keys against its hole as precise as she's could and stumbled inside her flat stealthily as she could.

 

As she sat inside the heavily carpeted room, her weight pressing her to the ground, her muffled cries shuffled with loud and soft weeping sounds from her chords, inviting the small creature of fur towards her position. Toby rubbed his head against the woman's legs covered with jeans, in return, Molly scratched his tummy with her right hand.

 

 **Toby**. Toby might be the only man left in her life right now, _you see?_ Sherlock is _far_ from living, only God knows where he is right now, John Watson is moving on with a nurse named Mary Morstan, Gregory Lestrade is busy with his team, Mike Stamford barely shows up in the Hospital, rather use his hours to the pub, _her_ father is dead, and Mycroft, felt _so_ cold and _almost_ dead.

 

"Toby, do you happen know that you're the only man with me?" Her query being answered by its small purr. "Well, now you do know. And I just realized it— ten minutes ago." **Insane** , totally mad pathologist who talks with sensual beings merely acting upon instincts. No, **not mad**.

 

 **But alone**. With Toby.

 

She looked at her sides, seemingly to notice a small bulge from her pocket. She took it out, revealing the small _paper_ she had kept from her laboratory gown when Meena pointed it out, reading the notes silently, she cried once more, her hand _leaving_ Toby to crumple it and to _throw_ it far from anyone's reach.

 

**Alone with no one. All one.**

 

**∞**

 

 

 **There** **is** **no** **_point of denying that fact_**. A fact that they are no longer meeting halfway, there is no point in keeping the plans she had made and had wished for them to do and to happen. She's merely wasting her time over things or _people_ that will **never** try to put much effort as what she has been giving. **It** **is** **pointless.**

 

 _No point_ in saying I love you when the other just says Thank you, none also in muttering I miss you when he speaks of _okay_ , and no love in uttering I do when he is fonder of I don't care about you. This is just another one-sided love she's always been falling for, since Sherlock, and there's no other difference, _what would you expect from a Holmes?_ A lot of expectations failed by surprises of failures to express emotions. **Perhaps they are both like that.**

 

 **Perhaps she should give up**. Toby _walked out_ of the carpet, off to retire to his small cat bed.

 

Thanks for that small beep from her phone, at least _something agreed_ with her.

 

**∞**

 

 **"Hello, Meena?" Molly** asked the woman who phoned her first.

 

"Molly! Ahmm. _How_ am I going to say this?" Meena excitingly said, unable to focus with her underlying words.

 

" _Inspire_ , and _expire_."

 

"Yes. Ahmm," the woman breathe in and out and said, "Nathan asked me to marry him... I said _yes_?" Meena waited for her friend's salutations, but the woman never uttered any word from the other line. "Molly? You still there?"

 

The mouse only nodded hoping that Meena would see her action, with her teeth chewing her lips as the big droplets of tears started to drip down from her eyes.

 

"Thank you Molls, and whatever is _that_ you're having, just...try to get over _it_ , I know you could. I don't want the bridesmaid to be as dull as the bride herself. Smile for me, _will you_?" Molly just nodded and the line went dead.

 

She is happy for her friend, of course, it's just that... **Look at them both!** It was her who wanted to be married first, she could still hear the promises they had kept inside the bottles of champagnes and had thrownin to the seas, that Meena intends to be married after Molly, and Molly at the age of 30. Good God, she's _overdue_ , 33 is far from her ideal age to get married— perhaps she would just be living like her landlady, old and grumpy.

 

She's _not_ even sure if Mycroft's marrying her. Or even get married with anyone else.

 

She was sure before. Butnow? **Not anymore.**

 

**∞**

 

 **His head popped** out from the covers as she hugged him tightly, never letting him go after their _brief love-making_. It was as brief as a _quickie_ _,_ yet consummated with passion and tenderness, due to Mycroft's change of schedule. He's due within 20 minutes to meet the Prime Minister, and considering their current position, and the occurrences happened— he is in need of an _excessive_ and _intense_ _shower_.

 

Mycroft looked at her eyes, and she looked at him too, crystals shone brightly against each other as Molly began smiling and then he turned to prop his arm for his head. He leaned in to her face and shared a kiss from the luscious lips he had tasted a while ago, then asked, "What are you thinking?"

 

"Nothing." Mycroft left his arm and focused on her neck, nipping each veins and arteries that clung into it.

 

"I know you're thinking, what is it? Or _who_ are they?" He uttered at each kiss intervals she could count.

 

" _Kids_."

 

He stopped and stood, looking at the wall _clock_ she had hanging directly at the right angle towards her bed. "I'm _not in favor_ on where the clock is placed." He said, then walked in to the bathroom. **_Off to an intense bloody shower._**

 

He should have _predicted_ that it will all lead to a particular conclusion called marriage, as well as kids— an I-Thou relationship is a predictable one, _but_ _are_ _they_ _like that_ _?_ That the amount of feeling being given and shared is as equal and as proportional as it should be?

 

From that day, the light in his eyes always change to darkness when she tried to utter the word _'future'_ , _'kids'_ , ' _marriage'_ or any other word that would lead him to his _limitation_ in their relationship.

 

**∞**

 

 **She had changed** to her _night clothes_ and laid herself back against the thick bed inside her room. The fresh duvet, free from any _foreign_ substance, lying with her, covering her weight from the coldness approaching her sleeping form, shifted towards her, scooting over to her body. **He** placed his chin at the crook of her neck, his chin down to hers as his chest facing her back, and kissed her auricle.

 

"Molly, the _last thing_ I'm expecting for you to do is to give up on me. Please don't give up."

 

Molly gritted her teeth, hoping that Mycroft would end all her hopes and pains with a simple **bye** , but here he is, asking for her patience. She curved her hand into a fist underneath the covers lying above her, and swallowed the big lump forming within her throat, not caring if the man is aware of her consciousness.

 

"Sorry, I love you." The first time he'd spoken of the word aside from I'm fond of you, and I adore you. He _retired_ his head to the pillows, giving her enough _distance_ , yet still had his arms encircled _around_ her protectively.

 

How she hoped the next morning will still be the same. **Him** , hugging her tightly _as one_ ,all of a sudden fell down to her world of fantasies as she open her eyes, the weight previously resting above her— gone without any notice of flight.

 

She lifted her head, remembering how his voice felt so _warm_ against her ear  pressing her sensations and how now replaced with nothing but a hanging question.

 

**Will you still give up?**

 

That manipulating bastard had her all wrapped around his thumb. He had it all predicted by his intellectual prowess, had her down helpless, _tied_ within the metal bars with no way of escaping but to affirm with all his words without being aware of his deed.

 

 _But_ _she needed to make a decision. Or at least, make a difference._

 

She stood erect and flew towards the bathroom, leaving Toby purring at the door.

 

 **He had it all predicted** , hopefully her next move would come unnoticed in _his own chessboard._

 

**∞**

 

" **Molly, what are** you doing here? Is Mister Holmes with you?" Mrs. Carson asked her, inviting her inside Mycroft's manor built at the countryside, that Sherlock's unaware of. **A** **one** **big bolt hole**.

 

"Don't worry Mrs. Carson, Mycroft's not **with** me. And I'm here to go get _something_ upstairs, won't take me too long." She said as she made her way up the stairs, and halted as she noticed the woman worriedly walking towards the telephone. "And please don't call him."

 

The woman nodded and said, "Molly, do you still remember where his room is?"

 

Molly nodded and smiled at her, beamingly— "Clearly and predictably yes."

 

"That's not, he had mo..." Molly had lost her hearing ability as she focused on the patterns curved and written on the walls of his manor. Fascinating mahogany painted walls with golden linings in different engravings that seemed to have told the whole history of England, silver knights and armored cavaliers from the medieval period, shields with keen swords, and his favorite Victorian era gauntlet with a red king's fur coat were all that stood, placed in each beveled sides and corners of the corridors. Halting at a familiar double door with a pair of lion's busts with mouths opened for thick circular bangles, she opened it, revealing his once familiar room, now of a different view.

 

Her only aim to gather all the signs of her presence in his room, now **gone** **and** **replaced.**

 

A different view, that took her heart out— lashed her chest and cut her pulse. She bit her lower lip for the umpteenth time, a habit she displays when her forlorn nature guts in.

 

**∞**

 

 **Mycroft stood with** his eyes closed, looking at a distant cloud, traversing the sky alone. He had almost let his Kingdom engage in another World War, almost participated in the American military practices and exercises in Asian regions, almost enraged the New Zealand from its new position in the United Nations, almost let the English economy being affected massively by the failing oil prices, and lastly, almost added a million of population to the 4,500 death toll for Ebola virus. **All the hardships of a man**.

 

His phone beeped, notifying him a message from Anthea.

 

_Doctor Hooper is at the Petersfield. Check the cameras for proofs. Mrs. Carson tried to call but Molly refused. I have Charles waiting. - **Anthea**_

 

He replied immediately, another war to be handled _if_ misunderstood.

 

 _Well_ _then._

 

He wore his coat and had his brolly hanging on his branches, leaving the room darkly lit. **An armour-clad man.**

 

**∞**

 

 **Carson made her** way towards Molly who was looking at the fine prints of paints on the wall.

 

"I told you Molly, this is not Mycroft's room... He decided to move it." The old lady talked to her back.

 

The pathologist looked at her, with her nose in scarlet and face dripping wet from tears accumulated in her ducts, then uttered, "Who's room is this?"

 

**∞**

 

 **Mycroft shifted his** head and so as his body slightly giving them a small space, trying to focus on how to play sleeping, with the woman beside him, hurting and weeping.

 

He knew it all well, he had offended her the earlier encounter. He had made her cry, he saw it throughthe monitors. He had made her shudder from the coldness, and he made no effort to provide her warmth. Now the guilt had started to build up within him. **Why** **he started** **to be** **like that?**

 

 _Marriage_? _Kids_? _Family_? The words written in her small list. He could provide her all of those, he could give her everything she wanted, but he is not sure if he could be good husband, a good father— he could not even see himself sitting in a picture-perfect family portrait...he couldn't handle too much of an obligation. He's not simply a figure for that function. He knew it _all_ well, but he has _nothing_ now but her.

 

**When the world turns him down, who will provide him welfare?**

 

He needed time. **_Time to think._ **

 

Could she provide him that, if she's hurting and nearing her borders, her end? He knew that there would be a time for her to give up, but not this soon... **so soon.**

**She needed an assurance.**

 

He could feel that the woman started to relax under his arms, the tears had lulled her to her deepest slumber.

 

He had _everything_ predicted, as each clock would tick at the same vibration, as how the Earth should be revolving around the central red giant _star..._ perhaps something disturbed the equation—  knowing where it all started would do no good, he needed to proceed, to reach the omega. And Mycroft Holmes would never relax, not until an emergency had been handled and settled. He needed to **move**.

 

**∞**

 

 **"Mrs. Carson, If** you don't mind, I require you to please prepare a cup of tea and water? Have them in the veranda." Mycroft walked in and dismissed the old caretaker.

 

"And this room, is..." Mycroft looked at _his_ woman, trying to supply his statement with the right words.

 

"Mycroft. Is this the reason why you _suddenly_ turned cold?" Molly asked, her lips still swollen from endless crying.

 

"No. Molly, don't misunderstand this." He said walking towards Molly.

 

"Who told you? I had it _all_ clearly grasped. You knew it _all_ along." The mouse tried to give him a _blow_ on his chest, but her energy wouldn't make it work.

 

"I needed time in considering for another responsibility. It's not what I have expected, however as it seemed to be, the egg has been hatched immaturely." He clasped his long upper limbs around her small frame, caging her.

 

"How did you know?"

 

"I have it deduced... This is supposedly still being concocted, until your realizationwould tell and hit you that you have missed your catamenia." He said planting his lips on her crown, looking at the walls of emerald green with bronze panes. "Greens are said to be good for mental development, so I assumed, it would be good for growth, regardless on _its_ sex."

 

"You've been a total rude, why is that? You could be soft than that. National threat?" She muttered, refraining from crying.

 

"No, I had to create plans, **for Mummy wouldn't like it.** "

 

He's Mycroft Holmes, predicting things through frames of logic and balance of probability, however, at it seems to be— he failed to notice one thing... Change may be predictable through the courses of space and time where the laws of Physics governing its nature, as stated with the Clockwork Universe, but Molly's not the time nor the mechanical clock that continues to tick at the same clockwise direction, not even of that bucket argument for absolute space created by Newton and Clarke that will still produce a predictable concave shape as the water rotates— she's of a complex, unpredictable nature, perhaps, a completely different universe. A newfound universe formed with various inexplicable equations and strings made by the marriage of time and space, blinking in different and irregular sequences and places—that, only takes the _smart one_ to live within it.

 

**∞**

 

He is Meena’s Jonathan because he could only handle the world. He is Mycroft Holmes not because he could handle England... but because he could handle the universe.

 

In other words, she is so much luckier than Meena.

 

_'At least Meena would like it.'_

**_"I guess space and time, take violent things, angry things and make them kind."_ **

-Sleeping At Last, Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
